The Stone and the Steward
by Lady Wenham
Summary: After returning to the White City to celebrate the completion of Minas Tirith’s post-war reconstruction, Faramir begins to fear that he has inherited Denethor’s propensity towards madness. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter One

The Stone and the Steward

Chapter One

Disclaimer: All hail, Tolkien!

Rating: PG(13)

Summary: Several years have passed since Faramir inherited the Stewardship from his father. But after returning to the White City to celebrate the completion of Minas Tirith's reconstruction, Faramir begins to fear that he has also inherited Denethor's propensity towards madness.

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**"[Denethor clasped] the _palantir_ with both hands upon his breast [as he burned]. And it was said ever after, if any man looked in that Stone, unless he had a great strength of will to turn it to other purpose, he saw only two aged hands withering in flame." –_Return of the King_**

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The cloudless night was peaceful.

A light breeze blew steadily from the east, trickling like water against his skin, stirring the length of his hair, but he hardly paid notice to the resulting shiver that traveled up the length of his spine. The pale moonlight cast an elongated, friendless silhouette behind his somnolent form, which reclined on the ledge of the window, one leg dangling precariously over the side, the other, drawn up against his chest.

He gazed into the black nothingness of the night, letting a slow, labored breath ease from his chest as he willed the tenseness in his shoulders to subside. The muscles in his shoulders chose not to cooperate and persisted in their subtle torture.

Closing fatigued yet incessantly alert eyes, Lord Faramir breathed deeply of the cool, night air. The wind shifted briefly from east to north and calmed him momentarily as it swept over him. The cool breeze eased away a minuscule amount of the burning in his veins, and once again, Faramir's gray eyes opened to quietly regard the moon.

His grave countenance clearly reflected his mood. Serving for years as Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, Faramir possessed an uncanny ability to sense concealed danger before it struck. The lives of his men depended upon it. Perched upon the quiet window ledge overlooking the peaceful White City that was no longer his home, the young Steward felt deeply disturbed in his spirit. Something was very wrong. He would bet his life upon it. A vein in his neck ticked heatedly, his mind fuming with the uncertainty that plagued it.

His eyes were on the moon, but it was the quiet breeze that brought the soft whisper to his ears.

_"Faramir."_

The Steward blinked. Turned.

He was alone.

_"Please."_

Darkness overtook his gray eyes as Faramir's pupils dilated in bewilderment. The whisper was gentler than the wind, decidedly masculine, but barely distinguishable. Its timbre was pleading. Desperate.

_"Faramir, I beg you..."_

The Steward had long since descended from the window ledge, feverishly searching the room for the source of the whisper. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Show yourself!"

The soft sound of weeping reached his ears. He spun in circles, trying to determine what direction the inconsolable cries were coming from. His efforts were in vain. The weeping was all around him. A dull ache began to twist urgently in his chest.

_"Forgive me, my son."_

Epiphany hit him with brutal intensity as the voice changed from a whisper to a cry of anguish, its true tone displayed. Faramir blinked in surprise and bewilderment, his heart hammering angrily in his chest.

"Father?"

-----

He awoke upon cold stone, sticky eyes peeling apart slowly at the sound of a voice calling his name. Though numbness seemed to have paralyzed his limbs, Faramir realized small but persistent hands were shaking him. Through the darkness, he could make out his wife's profile, outlined by silver moonlight streaming into the room from the window behind her.

"Éowyn?" he managed, his tongue feeling thick and stupid.

"You're awake!" she cried, in obvious distress. It was about this time that Faramir realized he was on the floor. Disoriented and unsettled, he struggled to sit up, finding the task more difficult than it should have been. Éowyn's arms moved to steady him.

"What happened?" he asked, looking around the dark room in perplexity.

"I don't know," she answered in a trembling voice. "I awoke and saw you had not come to bed, so I came looking for you. Do you remember nothing at all?"

He did not answer her, for he had no answer to give. But after a few moments, the memories began to surface. His gray eyes widened in bewilderment.

_There was a voice. It called to me._

The Steward frowned deeply as an eerie chill crept up his spine. He shook the feeling away as quickly as it had come upon him, refusing to be frightened by something so irrational. But it was too late, for a shadow of doubt began to unfold in his already troubled mind.

"Faramir?"

He blinked, startled from his thoughts. "I am all right," he answered at length, rising steadily to his feet. Éowyn's pale lips gave no response as she took his offered hand, but her face gave away that she was far from satisfied by his answer.

Together they moved through the Steward's House towards their chambers. It was not their home, which lay in the royal hills of Emyn Arnen, but when their presence was requested in the City, they resided there. Faramir disliked the arrangement, for the halls were thick with unpleasant memories. Of his discomfort in the home of his father, Faramir told no one—not even his wife—and certainly not the King. Thus he moved through its darkened halls coolly, as if determined to be unaffected by its shadowed past.

Though he hardly needed it, Éowyn's strong hands guided him to their bed. He was quiet as he slowly pulled off his boots. She watched him warily as she worked on the leather laces of his tunic. "Are you feeling ill?" she asked quietly, seeming troubled by his silent contemplation.

"A little tired, I suppose," he answered inattentively, obviously still lost in thoughts he did not share.

"And earlier? Did you feel ill before the collapse?"

His eyes fell upon her face and perceived fear there. "No, Éowyn," he said gently. "Please do not upset yourself over this. I feel quite well."

"You were pale as death," she whispered, meeting his gaze. "How would you react had it been me lying there?"

Faramir's features softened, and he rose from the bed. Éowyn allowed herself to be gathered close in his arms. Pressing her face against the warm crook of his neck, she breathed deeply of his familiar scent—of leather and musk. "I am sorry," she said as she calmed. "It frightened me, finding you like that. For a moment, I thought you were dead."

"You won't be rid of me that easily," he whispered into her hair, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm afraid you're to be stuck with me for some time yet."

"A terrific burden, indeed." She lifted her head and tried to offer him a smile. "But one I shall bear without complaint."

"How courageous of you. Tell me, love, isn't marriage proving to be a terrible _bore_?"

Éowyn laughed, and once again she marveled at her husband's remarkable ability to pull her away from fear and doubt, even as the shadow closed in around them both. "If this is boring, I dread the day something _does_ happen."

He smiled and kissed her, trying with everything he had to erase the anxiousness he saw in her eyes. It was an all too familiar picture of the Éowyn he'd first met, whose face was filled with sorrow and unrest. Though his thoughts overflowed with uncertainty of his own and discomfort in finding himself in the house of his father, Faramir pushed such things from his countenance so that Éowyn could be at ease.

His efforts were not in vain, for it was not long before she fell asleep. He watched her slumber trustingly in his arms, half buried in the absurd amounts of feather pillows that littered what was once his father's bed.

_Never did I dream this room would serve as my chambers,_ he mused, twisting the silver ring of the Steward around his finger thoughtfully. _I wonder what Boromir would have thought of it had it come to him?_

The room did not bother Éowyn in the least. Indeed, she found it quite comfortable, as would anyone who had not grown up in fear of it. When it belonged to his father, to enter was absolutely forbidden. How large and foreboding the room had seemed to him as a child! Faramir's adult eyes found with some amusement that it now appeared rather small. If only the memories of the rest of the house would dissipate in his mind as well.

Resolutely, Faramir pushed these thoughts away. Tonight was not the night to remember Denothor. Tonight was not the night to grieve him.

_Not yet—not until I have forgiven him. I owe him that much._

Shutting his eyes against the ghost of unpleasant memories, Faramir buried his face in his wife's hair and fell into a dreamless sleep.

-----

To be continued.

I have plagiarized myself a bit in this chapter, and taken a small amount of text from a Labyrinth story I wrote some years back but never finished. So for the few people who might recognize a few lines (though I doubt anyone will), don't tar and feather me! Both story authors are one and the same! ^_^ Bach stole from himself all the time—why can't I?

faramirandeowyn@hotmail.com

ithilien.morningstar-rising.com


	2. Chapter Two

Beloved readers—you'll have to cut me a little slack on this next chapter. It's not some of my best writing, as I've been a little sick this week. ^_^;; I wanted to get something out, though, so please forgive the neglect!

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The Stone and the Steward—Chapter Two

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"Hold still!"

"What are you _doing_ back there?"

Faramir moved his head unexpectedly, and Éowyn accidentally clipped off a bit too much hair in the back as a result. She bit her lip in amusement. "It would not take so long if you had allowed me to do this weeks ago. Don't you want to look nice tonight? Stop turning your head!"

"If I didn't love you, I swear—"

"Caution, my lord," Éowyn interrupted, waving the scissors playfully before Faramir's pleading eyes. "You forget my brother is in the city. I've heard it said he is eager to see how my new husband is treating me."

Faramir considered this briefly. "A fine point. Have I extolled your many virtues lately?"

She laughed merrily, running her fingers thoughtfully through his loose curls. "Faramir, who usually cuts your hair?" she asked after a few moments of inspection.

"I do."

"No wonder. It's all uneven in the back." Éowyn cleverly did not disclose her addition to the unevenness, and once again, she wielded her scissors and began snipping away.

Faramir winced. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? You're not cutting it too short?"

"I used to cut Éomer's hair all the time."

"Is that so? Hmmm," he commented lowly. "In that case, perhaps I should take over."

She slapped the side of his head.

-----

The great City of Minas Tirith glowed ethereal white beneath the full moon. A thick blanket of stars winked down upon the upturned faces of the citizens, and their celestial beauty was unhindered, for there was not a cloud in the sky. The hour was late, but the City was awake. Sounds of music and rejoicing echoed throughout the streets.

A few noticed that the wind blew steadily from the east, as it had for most of the week, but no Shadow now loomed there, so it was not taken as an ill omen by most. When the White City chose to raise its banners in celebration, there was little that could ruin its joy—even the remembrance of dark times. The City's reconstruction after the damage done by the battle of the Pelennor Fields was at last complete. Thus King Elessar mandated a citywide celebration. Banners and proud white flags waved from every crevice of the great city. But nothing could match the splendor of Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, where the King hosted his own personal gathering.

Faramir led his wife inside, his hand pulling at his newly shorn curls self-consciously as he greeted the other guests they passed. "Stop that," Éowyn scolded through a forced grin that she reserved for meeting new important people she probably would end up disliking. "They will think us simpletons."

"My goodness, how _dreadful_ that would be," he said through his own forced smile.

Before Éowyn could respond, the King was upon them, dressed magnificently in robes of silver and black. "My friends!" he cried, embracing them both in turn. "Too long has it been since you have last visited Minas Tirith. Over a year, I should think!"

"You have our apologies for our extended absence," Faramir offered with a chuckle. "Setting up a new home is not as easy as it sounds."

"And how is fair Ithilien? Do you find it suits you, Éowyn?"

"It does, indeed," Éowyn said. "You must honor us with a visit, my lord."

King Elessar bowed graciously. "Arwen would be delighted to leave the City for a short while, I'm sure, as would I. She claims Minas Tirith hasn't a single tree within its gates save one."

"But there are plenty of trees, my lord!" Éowyn argued. "On every tunic and flag. Indeed, the City seems quite overwhelmed with them."

The King laughed, his keen eyes sparkling. "I do believe the Lady of Rohan thinks Gondor impractical, Lord Faramir."

"She would not be alone in that assessment," said a new voice. They turned to see the Queen, smiling and radiant as always. She took her husband's arm and added, "But as I greatly enjoy the company, a single flaw will be overlooked."

The Steward and his wife bowed to the Queen and were surprisingly honored when she returned the gesture. "If I may steal your wife away, Faramir?" she requested with a mischievous sparkle in her ageless eyes, "I have missed her dearly and long desired her company." After he gave his consent, the two women bid their husbands farewell and disappeared into the multitude.

Turning to the Steward, the King said, "Walk with me."

They exited the Hall out onto the Court of the Fountain. The White Tree was just beginning to flower as it woke from winter, and the courtyard was filled with the fragrance of its blossoms. Though the night was pleasant, Faramir remained slightly on edge from the previous night's events. Hearing voices and waking only to find he'd collapsed had left him understandably alarmed and more than a little embarrassed. He knew Éowyn was anxious for him, but as he insisted he was feeling quite well, she let the matter be. Faramir sighed deeply and absently straightened his gloves.

"How do you fare, my friend?" the King asked as they walked. "Perhaps it is the moonlight, but you appear quite pale."

The Steward's eyes fell to the ground. "I thank you for your concern. I admit that I feel a small amount of fatigue, but it is hardly anything to speak of."

Faramir barely restrained the urge to flinch when he felt the eyes of the King fall fully upon him. "I am glad you are in good health, my friend," the King said, "but I feel you do not speak the entire truth."

"It is justly said that Elessar discerns much." Faramir smiled sadly. "I cannot lie to my King. No, I am not entirely well. A small incident occurred last night. I awoke to find that I had collapsed on the floor, inexplicably having lost consciousness for a short while."

The King halted and turned toward the Steward with concern in his eyes. "Inexplicably? You do not know the reason for your illness?"

"My guess would be the fatigue I spoke of earlier."

The King gazed at him intently for a moment. After a moment, he nodded and said, "I will that you retire early this evening, Faramir. I need you at full strength when the Council reconvenes at week's end. You will speak to me if this happens again."

The Steward bowed low in silent response.

"Have you news of Ithilien? I hear rumors of small bands of orcs raiding travelers along the Anduin."

"You have heard correctly, my lord. The orcs we come across are usually starving and under poor command," Faramir said, falling into step with the King as they again began walking. "The hunger makes them vicious, but they are weak nonetheless. Still, they have begun to multiply along the southern borders."

"It is as I feared then. We can focus on strengthening our borders now that the City has been refortified. This will be discussed in full at the Council. Will you prepare a report to aid in deliberations?"

"With pleasure, my lord."

The King again seemed to study Faramir closely. "I will not lie to you, my friend. I sense much disquiet in you. May I speak plainly?"

"Of course."

"I have a few concerns about you staying in the home of your father."

Faramir felt his shoulders tense. He said nothing in response.

"I know it is tradition for the Steward to reside there," the King continued, "but I must ask if the arrangement suits you? It would be no trouble to have your things moved."

At length, the Steward found his voice. "Éowyn is comfortable there. She would not like to move, I think."

"You do not speak for yourself, Faramir."

He sighed deeply. "In all honesty, I have tried not to think of my father since arriving in the City. It is true that my father's home holds some things I remember as quite unpleasant, but I choose to ignore them. For the present."

King Elessar turned to the Steward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Think of your father, Faramir, for he would want you to. Honor his memory, but learn from his mistakes. I pray the wounds I sense you carry in your heart will heal in time. My offer to reside elsewhere still stands. I trust you will take advantage of it, should you need it."

With that, the King bowed to him and departed, leaving Faramir alone with his thoughts. The Steward closed his eyes, as if suddenly pained by something. The words of the King were potent—a gentle reprimand—and Faramir took them to heart. His silent reverie, however, lasted only a few moments before footsteps sounded behind him.

"Lord Faramir!" a mighty voiced called. "Who on earth cut your hair? It looks dreadful. I notice that you are absent from the celebration. You're not intimidated by my presence, are you?"

Faramir looked wearily at King Éomer, clad in formal armor and ominously gripping the handle of the sheathed sword round his waist. "That depends on what my wife has told you about me."

Éomer laughed and slapped Faramir heartily on the back. The young Steward winced in pain. "Come!" Éomer cried, oblivious to his strength. "You brood too much. We are brothers now! Let's have some ale. We have brought our finest from Meduseld to share with our friends here in Gondor." Here, Éomer leaned in and said to Faramir confidentially, "That's our official statement, but the real reason we brought it is because Gondor's strength lies not in its breweries."

"So I discovered from our hobbit friends," Faramir said with a smile. "I look forward to sampling your fine gift, but I must warn you that I am on orders from the King to retire early tonight. You must excuse me after we share our drink."

"Then let us partake of it at once, brother, so that you may do as he commands."

Éomer led Faramir back into the Great Hall and called loudly for the ale to be brought round. The two made a toast to the friendship between the two countries, and to Éowyn, whom they both adored. Faramir observed from Éomer's red cheeks that the drink in his glass was not his first of the evening.

Following his gaze, Faramir found with amusement that Éomer's eyes had fallen upon the face of Lothiriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. "You eye my cousin, Éomer-king," the Steward said. "She is fair, is she not?"

"Your cousin?" Éomer reached blindly and gripped Faramir's shirt with urgency. "What is her name? Who is her father? Does she have an understanding with anyone? Why haven't you introduced us yet? Speak quickly!"

Faramir bled with laughter, thinking that a union between his cousin and brother-in-law would be very odd indeed, but strangely charming. "Come then, brother, and I will make sure these and other questions are answered to your satisfaction."

----

At length, Faramir bid his wife goodnight, for Éowyn seemed reluctant to leave the assembly. She was engaged in animated conversation with those who had come from Rohan to honor the alliance with Gondor, and Faramir was unwilling to steal her away from those she had missed so dearly.

Stepping out into the courtyard, Faramir breathed deeply of the night air. The words of his king echoed in his head, but remembering his father was more difficult than he could admit. There was simply too much hurt there—too much to work through. Casting gray eyes upon the Tower of Ecthelion, which lay directly before him, Faramir felt anger course through his veins, for he knew what lay at the top, in a secret room—the _palantir_, which had caused the madness and downfall of his father. It now belonged to the King, but long had it been in the possession of Denethor. Knowing what it did to his noble father, Faramir hated and resented the Anor-stone.

And yet...

Always in the back of his mind was the desire to look into it. To touch it—to see what it might tell him. Why he desired this, Faramir did not know, for he had heard the haunting rumors surrounding the stone. He knew what was seen when one looked into the _palantir_.

But he did not want to think about that.

Faramir closed his eyes, shutting the Tower of Ecthelion in all its glory from his mind, willing the horrible memories to take flight. When he opened them again, he saw something he did not expect.

A man stood before the window at the top of the tower, robed in black, silhouetted by the light of the glowing _palantir_ from behind. The stone cast light like flames, licking at the walls and the bent figure of the man. Faramir's eyes widened in surprise at the sight, and for one gut-wrenching moment, he could have sworn it was the Lord Denethor was looking down upon him.

_Faramir..._

The voice! The same voice he'd heard last night in his study! Faramir blinked in bewilderment, but when his eyes opened, man in the tower window was nowhere to be seen. A breathless and confused Faramir searched hungrily for the departed figure and did not hear as someone approached him from behind.

"My Lord Steward?" a voice said. Faramir turned and saw that an armed guard had joined him. "Is everything all right?"

"A man. There was an old man in the window of the tower."

The guard's gaze flew to the tower. "Impossible! The entrance to the tower is guarded. Only the King and Steward are allowed within unaccompanied. And even then, there are few who know how to access the stairs to the top of the tower."

"I know what I saw," Faramir declared, a little heat tainting his words. "Go back to your post." Without a second thought, he set forth toward the entrance to the tower. Guards stood patiently still on both sides of the great doors; they moved to open them when Faramir approached, allowing the Steward passage.

As the guard from the Courtyard pointed out, the entrance to the secret room at the top of the tower was indeed known by few, but Faramir was clever and observant enough to have solved the mystery of its location long ago. In an instant, he was through the secret doorway and flying up the winding staircase. Coming at last to the top of the tower, Faramir drew out his sword.

But the room was empty...

Save for the _palantir_, resting peacefully on a cushioned stand.

All thoughts of the intruder fled from the Steward's mind. Faramir's eyes grew wide as he gazed upon the stone for the first time. Its depths were dark and quiet, completely unassuming. Desire stirred within him to look into the seemingly innocent stone. A single chair stood before it invitingly. He took a step towards it.

A shadow passed before him across the walls of the room, like a phantom. Faramir's eyes widened in horror, for he was still very much alone in the barren room.

_Please, Faramir._

Again the phantom voice beckoned him. Shaking his head, Faramir gathered his wits and without a second thought, exited the room as quickly as he had entered it. He rushed from the tower and across the Courtyard, fleeing from the temptation of the stone and from whatever it was he had seen in the room.

He did not stop or even allow himself to think until he found himself back in his study. Shutting the door firmly behind him, Faramir found that he was terribly short of breath and trembling. Sinking to the floor by the window, he placed his head in his hands and tried to calm himself.

"My God," he breathed, his eyes wide. "Have I gone mad?"

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Please review! It encourages me to write faster. ;) faramirandeowyn@hotmail.com

A few notes: I know little of the actual layout of the secret room of the _palantir_, save that it lies at the top of the tower. Because of this, I did not try to describe where the entrance was. I simply don't know! If anyone has this information, I would love to find out.


	3. Chapter Three

Dear readers—thank you so much for your kind reviews! I got a lot of positive feedback on Éomer, so I'm going to include a little more of him in this chapter. Aren't he and Faramir simply nummy? This chapter is definitely on the PG-13 side.

Some of you may notice that I changed my pen name. Don't get confused. It's still me. At least…I think so. *pokes self*

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The Stone and the Steward—Chapter Three

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The celebration lasted well into the night, and though Éowyn missed the presence of her husband, she was secretly glad the King had ordered Faramir home to rest. He certainly seemed to need it. Despite Faramir's absence, Éowyn found company with old friends, both from Rohan and Gondor, and particularly with her brother. When Éowyn finally felt she could no longer keep her eyes open, it was Éomer who took her arm to escort her home through the darkened streets of Minas Tirith. Arm in arm, they laughed and joked and teased one another mercilessly, as had always been their way.

Éomer's chest swelled proudly. "Lothiriel is lovely, is she not? Sister, I am in love."

"In lust, I should say," Éowyn responded, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, I agree that she is quite beautiful, but I do not believe in love at first sight."

"This coming from the woman who claims to have fallen in love in under a week."

"I was under _great duress_," she huffed defensively. "And Faramir was quite charming!"

"Never trust a man who courts a woman when she's distressed, and waits to do so until the woman's older brother is off to war."

Her mouth dropped open as she laughed. "I thought you liked Faramir!"

"The Steward is tolerable, I suppose, though he broods terribly," Éomer conceded with a smile. "He seems to have gotten worse since the last time I saw him. I suppose that's due to your wretched cooking. That alone would make any man despondent."

Éowyn chose to ignore the insult—for the present—for Éomer had observed something that had been weighing on her mind. "I admit that I am very worried about him. He has not been himself lately, particularly since we returned to Minas Tirith."

"The man takes himself too seriously."

"He has been through much."

Éomer shook his head. "No more than you or I, Éowyn. We have lost many loved ones as well."

Éowyn chuckled sadly. "Yes, but we did not have the infamous Denethor II as a father. You should hear the stories the women I've met here in the City have to tell of him."

"I have heard it said that Denethor was noble and just in life. Be careful of where you get your information. I would not like to hear tales from any woman, for they like to cluck their tongues and gossip terribly. Rarely is the truth spoken from such lips."

"I take offense to that!"

"Good."

Éowyn slapped his arm in retribution. "Well, I have to hear the story from _someone_. Faramir never speaks of his father. I know the memories of Denethor hurt him deeply, but he will not admit it."

Éomer fell silent for a few moments and considered the information presented to him. "Take my advice, sister, if you are indeed worried about Faramir. Do not pay heed to petty gossip. Seek the truth from the man himself, if you believe it is the memories of his father that grieve him."

"You are right," Éowyn said, her eyes falling to the ground in thought. "I hate to make him recall things that hurt him, but I suppose it is better in the end."

"It is obvious he loves you—despite your cooking—and I suppose that gives him a little merit. I am sure he will hear what you have to say."

Her eyes turned upward to smile kindly at him. "Since when did my brother become so wise?"

"All this kingly business is getting to my head, I believe. Next, I'll be recording my memoirs and become obsessed with producing an heir to the throne."

Éowyn laughed. "I hope you do both. I have long desired to be an aunt."

When they finally came to the doors to the Steward's House, Éomer bestowed a kiss upon Éowyn's brow. "Sleep well, sister, and tell the runt if he touches you, I shall break him. I would rather be a father than an uncle."

-----

She found him in his study, fast asleep at his desk, his weary head resting upon one arm. The candles in the room burned low and dim, casting much of the room in long shadows. She hated to wake him but knew he would sleep much better in a bed. Quietly Éowyn approached and touched Faramir's face lightly with her fingertips. When she spoke his name, gray eyes slowly peeled apart to gaze hazily up at her.

"I keep finding you in here when you should be in our bed," she said gently. "Don't you enjoy my company anymore, husband?"

He did not respond but caught her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. She laughed, as he seemed to arrange her into a makeshift pillow. She wrapped one arm around his neck, and his head rested comfortably above her breast. She shivered as his warm breath tickled her neck.

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," she continued. "My brother says your life will be in peril should you touch me."

Faramir grunted sleepily and gathered her impossibly closer. Éowyn smiled as she lightly traced his features with a fingertip—over his long eyelashes, down his distinctive nose, to the light stubble on his cheeks, and across his full lower lip. She did not fail to notice the twin tracks of dried tears on his cheeks, despite the room's failing light. Her heart twisted anxiously for him, but now was not the time to delve into such matters. She was glad that he had at last found a little rest.

Pressing a kiss to his brow, Éowyn whispered, "We will be more comfortable in our own bed, my lord."

Again Faramir uttered an unintelligible grumble, but seemed to comprehend her words, for he slowly rose to his feet, setting her carefully on the ground. She noticed that his eyes were barely open as they journeyed to their bedroom, such was his fatigue. Éowyn helped him out of his clothes and into bed, joining him a few moments later when she had undressed. To her surprise, a half-asleep Faramir rested himself gently on top of her, catching her lips in a series of long, lazy kisses. Her eyes drifted shut languidly as she soaked in his slow ministrations.

"Tell your brother to mind his own business," he said at length, rolling off of her with a smile.

"Gladly," she responded, laying her head upon his chest when he gathered her close.

"Love you," he mumbled and was asleep before she could respond.

Éowyn smiled sadly as she watched him. She vowed to herself that tomorrow, they would talk about what was bothering him so deeply. Decisively, she pressed her nose into the crook of his neck and closed her eyes. "I love you, too, Faramir. Sleep well."

-----

The dream came to him just before dawn.

Again, Faramir found himself at the top of the Tower of Ecthelion. The _palantir_ stood before him, its surface engulfed in flames. He looked upon it longingly but valiantly resisted its call. He could not, however, ignore the shadowed figure haunting the edges of the room, clothed in robes of black.

"Who are you?" Faramir demanded, taking a threatening step towards the cloaked figure. "You are not allowed here."

"Faramir," the stranger breathed slowly, his voice strained and fleeting—that of a withering old man. "You have come again. I prayed that you would."

"I ask again, old man," Faramir said heatedly, his patience running thin. "Who are you? How is it you know me?"

Whether the moon suddenly came out or the shadows decided to shift, Faramir did not know, but the face of the man was at last revealed. It was ghostly pale and withered, but undeniable in its individuality. "Do you not know your own father?" the bent figure asked, vacant eyes staring blindly at his son.

Blood rushed from the Faramir's face, and he felt himself sway slightly on his feet. He backed away from the man in dismay, tears springing to his eyes. "This is impossible."

Denethor smiled vaguely as he crept along the edges of the room like a patient spider. The _palantir_ burned between them, its presence difficult to ignore. The dead Steward approached the Anor-stone, his eyes falling from the face of his son to gaze into the glassy surface.

"Why have you brought me here?" Faramir asked desperately, not noticing that he wept. "Can you not find peace, father?"

Denethor's eyes once again rose to pierce Faramir with a cold, vacant stare. Pale, ancient hands carefully gathered up the small _palantir_; the old man held the stone out to Faramir. "You understand little, my son."

And then, to Faramir's utter horror, Denethor burst into flames before his pleading eyes. The ghostly apparition shrieked and writhed as it burned, and Faramir found that he, too, was screaming in terror. The last thing the weeping son saw before the nightmare left him were his father's hands, withering in flame, grasping the _palantir_.

-----

It was the second time in two days Faramir had woken upon cold stone in confusion, not knowing how he came to be there. As the last threads of the nightmare left him gasping and shaken, Faramir's eyes flew open in a panic. Gazing at his surroundings, he found to his bewilderment that he was not in his bedroom. Indeed, he was not even in the Steward's House. The early morning sun shone harshly through the windows of the secret room in the Tower of Ecthelion, displaying his surroundings in such detail, there was no denying where he was.

More disturbing, however, was the _palantir_ he held loosely in his hands. Crying out in surprise, Faramir jerked his hands away and sat up quickly. He saw that his fingers were painfully burned a vivid red. Faramir's eyes widened in dismay as he looked again at the Anor-stone. Fingerprints marred its smooth surface, as clear as day.

In horror, Faramir realized he had unwittingly looked into the _palantir_.

-----

To be continued…hopefully soon. :)

faramirandeowyn@hotmail.com


	4. Chapter Four

There are a few lines in this chapter especially for Campy Capybara, a very sweet reviewer who has expressed concern over Faramir's sleepwalking attire. Come now, do you honestly think I would send the Steward on nighttime stroll in nothing but his skivvies?

Of course, now that I think about it, that could have potential…

Thank you for your sweet reviews, everyone. They make my day. :)

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The Stone and the Steward – Chapter Four

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"Forgive me for disturbing you so early, my lord, but I come with an urgent matter that cannot wait until a later hour."

King Elessar glanced up from his work to find Faramir before him, looking pale and distraught. "So I observe from your anxiousness. Pray sit, my friend, and tell me what has distressed you so." The King gestured kindly to a chair before his desk.

The Steward did not do as he was bidden, but instead fell to one knee and bowed his head in shame. "My King, most assuredly I have failed you this night. I come before you in contrition, for I have committed a crime worthy of my death."

A long moment of silence passed. When the King spoke, his words were carefully chosen, but their evenness did little to mask his surprise. "Tell me in full of this crime, Lord Faramir, but I will be the one who decides whether your actions are deserving of death."

Faramir bowed his head even lower, and spoke of his transgression with a clear voice. "I have looked into the _palantir_ of the King."

King Elessar's lips parted in distress, and his gray eyes darkened. "A serious crime, indeed, Lord Faramir. Using the Stone is forbidden for many reasons—particularly to you, son of Denethor. I trust you understand why."

"I am aware of the reasons. I know that it was the Stone that drove my father to madness. I do not wish the same fate for myself—or for my family to suffer because of it."

"What you have said is true, but I hope you realize that the _palantir_ has been shielded from you for another more sobering reason."

Faramir swallowed painfully, his vision swimming with tears he did not allow himself to shed. "I have seen what you speak of, my lord, though I wish with all my heart I had not."

"And yet you sought the Stone nonetheless. Why, Faramir, when you knew what you would see?"

The kneeling Steward reluctantly turned his eyes toward the King. "I do not know how to explain it. It is as if I was pulled there by a dream. Indeed, I thought I _was_ dreaming. But such things are of little consequence. It remains that I have grievously betrayed your trust in me."

The King sighed deeply and pulled out his pipe. He lit it and puffed thoughtfully for a few long moments. "Indeed, Lord Faramir, you have betrayed my trust. But from your countenance and from your assertion that you, yourself, felt as if in a dream, I wish to hear your tale in full before I pass sentence. There seems to be more at work here than mere will. Tell me, Steward, have you desired to look into the _palantir_ before?"

Faramir paled as memories of his father's madness played in slow succession across his vision. "Not before my recent return to Minas Tirith. I wish it had been destroyed or lost, long ago, like the stone of Osgiliath. That my noble father was deceived through it has grieved me since I knew of such things."

"Yes, it is as I thought. Still, have you never felt pulled toward it?"

For a moment, Faramir seemed lost—as if suddenly realizing something important. When he did not respond, the King repeated the question patiently. At length, Faramir replied, "How is it possible that I can resist the One Ring but not the call of my father's memory?"

The King's eyes shone with grave tenderness. "I wish to hear this tale _in full_, Faramir. Spare me no detail. And I will ask again that you rise from your knees and sit before me. I wish to see your eyes as you speak."

Obligingly, the young Steward rose, head still bowed in shame. He sank into the indicated chair, and somehow found the courage to meet the King's gaze with his own. Taking a deep breath, Faramir began his tale.

----

Éowyn woke feeling chilled and uneasy, with the strangest feeling that she was being watched. Sitting up, she clutched the sheets protectively to her chest. Faramir was nowhere to be seen, but that was not uncommon. Though Éowyn considered herself a morning person, nothing could compete with the hours her husband kept. He seemed to need little sleep, and she often retired and woke alone. This fact rarely bothered her, but for some reason, Éowyn was displeased as she gazed upon his barely dented pillows. Perhaps it was due to the talk she was planning on having with him. But something deeper was nagging at the corners of her mind—something she couldn't quite seem to put a finger on. She felt a sudden longing for her husband.

Reaching for her robe, she rose and opened the bedroom window. The sunshine and breeze soothed her, and she felt measurably better for it. It was time to dress for the day, and since she was planning to interrogate her husband until he confessed all, she would have to look particularly stunning if she wanted to catch him off-guard. After splashing some water on her face to brighten her cheeks, she combed her hair carefully and arranged it in a style Faramir particularly liked—worn long with the sides caught up in the silver combs he had gifted her with upon their betrothal. The dress was a deep blue that he said brought out her eyes, trimmed with silver and tiny glass beads. Dabbing a bit of cologne on her neck, she smiled mischievously. Faramir might be master over man and beast, but he did possess a few weaknesses—his wife being at the top of the list.

A soft knock sounded upon the door, and the chubby, red face of Éowyn's maid peeked into the room. "My!" the old woman exclaimed. "I came to see if m'lady needed help dressing, and here I find a princess in all her glory. You look lovely."

Éowyn smiled at the kindly woman. "Is the master at home or has duty already called him to the City?"

"Aye, he is in his study, ma'am. I saw him come back early this morning."

"Come back?" Éowyn echoed in perplexity. "But it is still quite early. Do you know where he went?"

"No, he did not say," the maid responded. She paused and seemed to blush. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but he was dressed terrible queer."

"How so?"

"He was just in a simple shirt and trousers. No cloak or tunic to speak of. I've never seen him attired so, at least not in public. It was as if he slipped off in the middle of the night."

Éowyn smiled warily. "Perhaps the Steward has taken to sleepwalking. At any rate, I am glad he is here now. I wish very much to speak with him. Perhaps, while I'm there, I can also solve the mystery of the missing cloak and tunic. Wish me luck."

-----

"You're wearing perfume," Faramir said when the door of his study creaked open slowly, his eyes not rising from his work. "I could smell it down the hall. You must want something."

"Aren't we in a pleasant mood this morning?" Éowyn teased lightly, stepping fully into the room. When at first he did not respond, she coughed pointedly to rouse his interest.

Faramir's gray eyes were weary and strained when they rose at last from his report. "You're dressed up, too, I see. You must _really_ want something. Come now, and tell me what it is. I have much work to do."

"A pleasant mood, indeed." She bristled at his words, her proud Rohirric blood staining her cheeks. Her request came out harsher than she intended. "If you must know, I wish to speak with you."

Faramir sighed deeply as he impatiently rustled through the stacks of papers littering his desk. His movements seemed unsteady and uptight to Éowyn's eyes. "Now is not a good time," he said in a low voice that was devoid of his usual tenderness. "The King ordered a report last night, and I shall be hard put to finish it before the council reconvenes."

Éowyn's gaze softened minutely. "You seem quite fatigued, my lord. Perhaps a short reprieve would help you concentrate more on your work. We could-"

"I do not wish to rest," he interrupted impatiently. "It is not fatigue that keeps me from focusing."

The pointed jab behind his words did not escape her. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord. I will leave you in peace." Éowyn's lips thinned as she turned to leave.

Another sigh escaped his lips. "Wait."

Her fingers stilled upon the door handle. She turned slowly, willing to hear what he had to say, even through her hurt. She watched silently as he placed his head in his hands, rubbing his temples with his thumbs as though he had a headache.

"Forgive me, Éowyn," he said quietly. "I did not mean to be short with you. I admit that I am not feeling quite myself this morning. I feel—no, you need not worry about such things. I am fine." He lifted his head and offered a weak smile. "Did you say you wanted to speak to me about something? I will listen."

The words spilled from her lips like a great river bursting through a weakened dam. "_I cannot help you until you tell what it is that is wrong_." The statement rang through the room as though she had shouted it, though her voice had barely risen above a whisper.

Faramir's pen slipped from his fingers. He said nothing, but it was clear from his features that she had struck a nerve. His face crumpled, as if he had allowed some great weight that was resting upon his shoulders to finally crush him.

Éowyn's features softened as she drew close to him. Taking his face into her hands, she forced his weary eyes to look into her own. "Do you think me blind? Do you think I cannot see how you suffer? You take great care to hide your sorrow from me, and I do not understand why."

The Steward grew pale at her words. "Éowyn..."

"What has happened, Faramir?" she pleaded. "Please, will you not tell me what grieves you?"

He seemed to deflate as the last of his resolve left him. Turning his gaze towards the open window, he fell into a deep, pensive silence as he debated exactly what to tell her. Only when Éowyn threaded her fingers between his did Faramir seem dazed from his thoughts. "King Elessar," he began shakily, "is a noble and kind man. He has done me a great service and forgiven something terrible I have done. I am greatly in his debt and do not know how to repay him."

"Terrible?" Éowyn echoed in confusion. "I hardly think you capable of such a thing. Though I do not know of what you speak, I think it more likely that you have taken more blame upon yourself than you deserve. You always do. Tell me what you believe you have done."

Faramir shook his head. "I have promised the King I will not speak of it to anyone, until certain matters have been cleared up. If things were different, I would tell you."

Éowyn took this new information into consideration and chose her next words with care. "This incident…it happened this morning?"

"More or less."

"You have been anxious and aloof much longer than that," she observed.

A deep sigh unraveled from Faramir's chest. "Forgive my behavior, Éowyn. My mind has been in a thousand places—some less pleasant than other. I will strive to pay better attention to you."

"I do not ask for more attention, my lord," she protested. "You give me more than I deserve. At every difficult turn, you are there to help me rise above fear and uncertainty. The only complaint I have is that you do not allow me to do the same for you."

"What would you have me do? I have faced many struggles in the past few years, yes, but you must forgive me if I do not wish to place them on your shoulders as well. You bear so much already. I am your husband, and it is my duty to uphold you—not to weigh you down with my problems."

"And I am your wife," she declared heatedly. "I uphold you as well. Will you not let me perform _my_ duty?"

Faramir's eyes closed slowly in defeat. "All right," he said softly, shaking his head. "I surrender. What do you want to know?"

"You spoke of struggles in the past year. Do you refer to the deaths of your loved ones?"

"Among other things. But you have lost family, too."

Éowyn shook her head. "No, Faramir. Do not belittle this. We are not talking about me. You have lost your _entire_ family. Both parents. A beloved brother. Have you allowed yourself to mourn them at all?"

"I have grieved for Boromir," he said after a moment of hesitation. "And for mother—long ago—indeed, I've been grieving her loss for over thirty years."

"But not your father?"

"No."

"Have you forgiven him, Faramir?"

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. There were times when Éowyn could see through him with uncanny ease. He barely felt her hand as it moved soothingly though his hair, back and forth. "He wronged you in many ways. I have heard the tales, though not from your lips."

"Please do not take this as a rebuke, Éowyn, but you did not know my father. He was an honorable man, and those who like to tell tales misunderstood many of his actions. You have heard nothing from me about him, for I do not wish to dishonor his memory with my own petty thoughts on certain matters. For the record, I forgave my father of any wrong doings towards me long before they occurred."

"Towards you, yes. But what about towards others? Towards Gondor and the King? Towards himself?"

Faramir stared at her.

Éowyn visibly hesitated, seemingly very cautious to articulate her next words. "Have you forgiven him for taking his own life? I know what Gondorian tradition says about such an act."

He flinched and sprang to his feet. Caught off guard by the thought of his father engulfed in flames, he began to pace around the room. It was said in Gondor, that if a person took their life, they would forever be caught in the moment they died—unable to break free—forever held within the state of despair and anguish they left the world in. If this were true, it was no wonder Denethor's withering hands could be seen in the reflection of the _palantir_.

"Oh, Faramir. I'm so sorry. I did not mean to..." Her words trailed off as she saw that he wept. She had never seen him do so before, so closely did he guard his emotions.

"I loved him, Éowyn. I loved him so much. Why did he do it? Why did he give in to despair?" He twisted his fingers in his hair, pulling at it to take the edge off the pain in his heart. "People remember him only as he was in the latter years of his life, but that was not him. My father was stern, yes, but he was also kind. I have this one particular memory of him that stands above all the others. After all these years, it is still vivid and fresh."

Éowyn gently pried Faramir's hands away from his hair and kissed them. "Tell me, then, for if you love this man, then I wish to know more of him so that I may love him as well." She pulled him towards the low couch in the back of the room. Their fingers intertwined as they settled.

"I was not yet five years old," he began. "Mother was recently dead. Many people were about, preparing for the funeral. Boromir was not permitted to comfort me in public, nor were we allowed to weep. Father did not like weakness of any kind shown in his sons, particularly to certain individuals of influence in attendance of the funeral. I believe I got the wrong impression and thought, in my immaturity, that grieving was entirely wrong and forbidden.

"I did not weep for my mother until after the funeral was over, some weeks after her actual death. When the tears finally came, I could not seem to stop them. I hid for hours from my father and brother, not wanting them to find me that way. But my father, of course, did find me eventually."

Faramir paused and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to control emotion from flooding his face. At length, he spoke again, unseeing eyes fixed upon the floor.

"He held me, Éowyn. He held me and held me until I simply ran out of tears. He never once told me to stop weeping, nor did he mention anything of my weakness. I will never forget the great refuge his arms were to me that day or the feel of his lips upon my brow. When my tears slowed, he put me to bed and asked what I wanted for my birthday, for it was the next day." Faramir gave a halfhearted chuckle. "I remember, I had forgotten all about it."

Éowyn was openly crying. "And what did you ask for?"

"My mother's mantle. It was something I always associated with her, for she wore it often."

"The mantle you placed on me in the Houses of Healing?"

"The same," Faramir said, his eyes never rising above the hem of Éowyn's dress. "My father brought it to me the next day and told me the story of my birth." He paused for a few moments and seemed lost in some vivid memory that had decided to relive itself before his waking eyes. "It is true that my father became despondent soon after this, but I will not speak ill of him, for I can never forget the comfort and love he gave me that day.

"You are right, Éowyn. I haven't forgiven him for taking his own life. I know it is selfish of me, but I fear I cannot help it. I can speak the words of clemency, but my heart and mind do not believe them. I have tried to let go of the anger, but being here again in this wretched place, I find myself constantly reminded of it. This lot should never have come to me. I was never groomed for the Stewardship, and I thought to never reside in this house again."

"I was foolish not to realize how staying in the house of your father might effect you."

"Not foolish, love. Only ignorant, for I've told you nothing till now."

Éowyn reached for him and sought out his lips with her own. "I am glad you have told me all these things—glad in my heart—because I know that words can heal just as assuredly as they can wound. Perhaps speaking of your father will help you through the process of forgiving him. Will you not tell me another story?"

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"No doubt something quite wonderful, long ago, that you've probably forgotten about."

A warm smile spread over his face, and Éowyn felt that it was the first genuine smile she had ever seen him wear in a long time.

Leaning over to kiss her, he said, "Then I am very glad I did it, whatever it was."

-----

To be continued.

Finduilas died five years after Faramir was born. Because I wanted a younger Faramir in this story, he is four, but turns five later in the year—in other words, the timeline is still correct—it just assumes his birthday fell after his mother's death, during the same year.

Fun Fact: Billy Boyd and Dominic Monaghan repeatedly refer to David Wenham as "Daisy" Wenham. I can't help but wonder where the nickname came from. :) Does anyone know the story behind it?


	5. Chapter Five

Have fixed error regarding the House of the Steward in previous chapters.  Happy reading!

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The Stone and the Steward—Chapter Five

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Faramir was terribly on edge.

The Council was to assemble in half an hour, and the Steward was less than happy with the report he clutched nervously in his gloved hand. In his mind, a child could have composed it better than him. He dearly loved his wife, but was it _really necessary_ for her to turn him into a sniveling mess when he was supposed to be working on something important for the King and Council? Faramir unfolded his report and glanced over it for the hundredth time; he groaned and swore under his breath when he found that it had not miraculously transformed into something worth reading.

It did not help that he had not slept a wink the previous night. He was far too worried about nightmares and waking in strange rooms for sleep to come. He passed the night in his chambers, taking turns watching his slumbering wife and suspiciously eying the shadows in the back of the room he could swear were moving and breathing his name.

All in all, Faramir was not having a good week.

Several members of the Council had begun to trickle into the great hall at the base of the Tower. Faramir suddenly felt a great desire to be elsewhere; he had never liked these gatherings, particularly when Denethor had overseen them. Faramir's suggestions and decisions were often publicly criticized, for in the latter years, his father had considered him little more than "a wizard's pupil." In Denethor's mind, nothing good could come of that. Though many in the Council respected Mithrandir, there were also those who sided with his father. A tight smile crossed over Faramir's face as he wondered what the elderly men of the Council now thought of his new position as Steward.

After paying his respects to a few important individuals he could not afford to ignore, Faramir moved towards the Steward's chair, located beneath and to the side of the King's throne. His eyes took in the familiar chair, and his thoughts fell to the man who once occupied it daily. An acute headache began to pound in his temples as he did so. Was there nothing in the City that did not remind him of Denethor?

"It is strange, is it not?" a voice said from behind. Faramir turned to find King Éomer had joined him. "To look upon a throne once held by one you called Lord, only to find it is you who are now the Lord."

"Indeed, it is," Faramir responded, surprised when Éomer placed a hand on his shoulder, seemingly in comfort.

"When my uncle passed, I took his title as King with more ease than I was able to accept his throne. There is something about taking up his seat that never seemed quite right in my mind."

"I would not know. I have never sat in the Steward's chair."

Éomer seemed momentarily confused by this. Faramir quickly explained. "At the end of the War, there was so much to do in the City and beyond, I found myself only in this room rarely. Indeed, I have not been in Minas Tirith in over a year."

"Now that I think about it, I suppose I have never seen you seated there. I do remember, however, that Gimli was particularly fond of the Steward's chair. He sat in it and smoked as we debated the ride to the Black Gate."

"Did he?" Faramir said with a chuckle. "It was a good thing my father was not there to see. He would have had the dwarf's head."

Éomer seemed suddenly to become troubled at the mention of Denethor. He tightened his grip on Faramir's shoulder. "I suppose what I am trying to say about the throne of your father is that I know how it feels to take a position that was not originally meant for you. Receiving the throne of Rohan meant the death of my uncle and cousin. For you it was your father and brother. We are both unlikely successors. But as Gandalf would say, this lot has come to us for a purpose."

Faramir's gaze fell to the floor. "You are right, brother, and I thank you for reminding me of my old mentor's wisdom. How I miss Mithrandir and his council. I have wished for it greatly, particularly since returning to the City." He sighed deeply, but quickly straightened his shoulders when he noticed someone approached. "Is it time for the Council to begin already? Here is the King."

Indeed, King Elessar was upon them. The noble ruler approached Faramir and Éomer, and bows were exchanged. "We are again honored by your presence, Éomer-king."

"And I by your invitation. Rohan is pleased to participate in today's Council, and I hope you will include us in days to come. If you will excuse me, I will take my seat so that we may begin deliberations." Éomer bowed and again gripped Faramir in a brotherly fashion by the shoulder before leaving the Steward alone with the King.

"You have not slept," Elessar observed.

It was not a question, and Faramir felt unnerved by the King's grave eyes upon his face. He shook his head. "No, my lord."

"I suppose you did not have another dream then. Were there any strange occurrences during the night?"

"None."

"I am glad, for your sake," the King said, fiddling thoughtfully with a glove. "I, however, did dream last night, and at Council's end, I wish to meet with you to discuss it."

Faramir bowed. "Of course."

Together they turned towards the gathering crowd in the great hall. Most of the men present were quite ancient, and they delighted in their own crabbiness. A good majority were stuck in their ways and impossible to convince of anything. Most were highly suspicious of Denethor's death. Many were still unsure about the new King and his claim to the throne. But all bowed to their King nonetheless, for they believed above all else in honor and loyalty.

King Elessar sighed deeply, looking upon the noisy crowd with slight annoyance but also with deep affection. "You know, Lord Steward," he began, his eyes twinkling, "sometimes I wonder if you did not yield the throne to me so willingly because you did not want to rule Gondor yourself."

Faramir's features pulled into a tight smile. "Can you blame me? During my short time as Ruling Steward, I felt your Coronation would not arrive soon enough."

The King laughed and clapped Faramir on the back. "Come, take your seat and we will formally greet our guests."

Obediently, Faramir sat in the tall chair once possessed by his father. It was quite large, and suddenly, Faramir felt unnerved and intimidated by it—as though he was a small child under the scrutiny of disapproving faces. It was only then that Faramir understood Éomer's words concerning his uncle's throne. Faramir knew it would be long, indeed, before he felt as though the Steward's chair was truly his. He shifted uncomfortably and forced his eyes to focus on the slowly quieting assembly before him. Behind him, the King began to chant the opening blessing in a mighty voice.

The Council had begun.

-----

Deliberations were unbearably long and arduous to one who had not slept. Faramir felt a little dazed when the meeting was finally adjourned, for so painstakingly had he struggled to focus on all that was said, he felt almost unable to rise and follow the King when bidden at Council's end. His head pounded in time with their footsteps as they marched towards the King's study.

"I see you are quite weary," Elessar said when they arrived. "I will not keep you long."

"I am yours to command, my lord, weary or not."

The King gave a wry smile. "This from the man who demanded I order his execution only yesterday. I bet you wish I had reconsidered your offer after sitting through today's Council."

Faramir relaxed a bit at the King's light teasing. "The thought had crossed my mind."

Elessar chuckled as he poured them both some wine to revive their strength. Handing Faramir a goblet, he said, "Let us discuss this dream of mine, then, so that you may retire. Please—sit."

The Steward nodded warily, unsure of what he was about to hear and slightly afraid to find out. The moon shone through the window behind the King, chiseling his noble features into sharp, shadowed angles. Faramir suddenly felt as though he was staring into one of the faces of the statues in the great hall beneath the tower—faces that were cast in the images of Gondor's kings. Acutely feeling the honor of being in this venerable man's presence, Faramir sat up straight and listened carefully to what his King had to tell him.

The King seemed thoughtful as he lit his pipe. "I'll begin by saying that I have seen too much not to believe in the supernatural. I do not question what you say you have seen and heard, for I know you to be of sound mind. I admit, however, that I was quite anxious for you yesterday. Perhaps it was because of this that the dream came to me.

"In this dream, there was a great fire, and in the midst of the flames was a bright jewel. I saw your father watching the flames as well, and somehow I knew that the jewel was in his keeping—and that he loved it deeply.

"'Why have you placed this treasure in the fire?' I asked.

"'He has placed himself there,' answered Denethor.

"Not wanting this jewel to become burned and scarred, I wished to remove it from the flames, for I saw that its luster was beginning to fade. Your father stopped me.

"'Leave the jewel in the fire,' he said. 'It will not be consumed. He has much still to learn.'"

Eyes calmly fixed on Faramir's pale face, the King continued. "Given the meaning of your name and the fact that Denethor called the jewel 'he,' I can only assume he meant you."

At the King's words, Faramir became very uncomfortable, remembering all too well the words he had last heard the ghostly apparition of his father speak.

_"You understand little, my son."_

"He said I placed myself in the fire?" Faramir asked quietly. "Hardly surprising. I suppose it _is_ my fault I found myself upon his Pyre."

The King shook his head. "I do not think that is what was meant. The jewel was amidst flames; Denethor was not. It was as if you had taken your father's place, and according to the dream, you placed yourself there. What do you make of that?"

"That I wish it had been me instead of him who had perished?" Faramir said softly.

Eyes shining with grave tenderness, the King smiled sadly at the Steward. "Try again."

Faramir's headache seemed to flair in protest as he sought to decipher what the King was trying to tell him. Closing his eyes against the pain, he seemed to see before him the dream that had just been described to him—the jewel…his father…the words exchanged. At length, something occurred to him he had not considered before. Faramir's eyes opened to find the King watching him patiently. Licking his lips, the Steward said, "I placed myself in the fire. The fire is what killed my father."

Again offering a sad smile, the King sat forward in his chair. His words were gentle and carefully chosen, though Faramir had already guessed their meaning before they were spoken. "I wonder, Faramir, if you do not carry the blame and weight of your father's death on your own shoulders?"

The Steward clenched his gloved hands thoughtfully. "It is true that there are certain…matters I wish had been different between my father and I."

The King raised an eyebrow. "Do you always speak so cryptically, Lord Faramir?"

Faramir glanced at the King wearily. "When I haven't completely thought through something? Always."

Elessar chuckled. "You have had several confrontations with the supernatural these past few days. I think it is high time you did a little confronting of your own—with your own thoughts and fears. You have not fully considered, I think, that perhaps the key to forgiving your father is to forgive yourself first. I am not judging who was at fault in your father's death—that decision is for you to make. You are a dear friend, Faramir, and an invaluable help to me. But I feel this matter with your father needs to be cleared up soon for you to continue prospering. I worry for you, my friend. This has eaten away at you far too long. Something tells me your father is thinking the exact same thing."

Tears swelled threateningly in Faramir's eyes, and he swallowed with difficulty. "I will try my best to do as you have requested, my lord."

"Then I can ask no more," the King responded warmly, rising from his chair. "I will send you on your way then, and pray you can find some peace in sleep tonight."

Head swimming with far too many thoughts, both pleasant and unpleasant, the pale Steward rose and bowed wearily. King Elessar watched as Faramir's shoulders seemed to fold in on themselves as he strode from the room. Despite his best wishes, the King knew in his heart peace was the last thing Faramir was to find this night.

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To be continued.

I've recently opened a website dedicated to "the best" in Faramir fanfiction. Please visit, and while you're there, recommend a story/author to be added to the archives. ithilien.morningstar-rising.com/

Egads, but this chapter was hard to write! Faramir refused to quit brooding long enough for the plot to move on. Silly boy.

Please review--I need encouragement. This story has me pulling my hair out!


	6. Chapter Six

Dear readers, have I mentioned that I adore you all?  My deepest apologies for the tardiness of this chapter.  Writer's block is to blame. ^_^;;

There is a ton of symbolism in this chapter—from the storm to the fire to the…well, just look for it.  It's fun.  :)

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**"And as [Denethor] held [the _palantir_] up, it seemed to those that looked on that the globe began to glow with an inner flame, so that the lean face of the Lord was lit as with a red fire, and it seemed cut out of hard stone, sharp with black shadows, noble, proud, and terrible.  His eyes glittered.**

**"'Pride and despair!' he cried."**

--J.R.R. Tolkien, _Return of the King_

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The Stone and the Steward – Chapter Six

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Dark clouds were gathering ominously in the eastern sky, encompassing the full moon as they hastened towards the city.  There was a distant roll of thunder, and the fleeting smell of rain danced on the breeze.  Standing at the edge of the Citadel's embrasure, Faramir watched in silence as the storm gathered its strength.  It would likely be quite a squall when all was said and done, and for that, he was glad.  He loved the rain and the echo of thunder, for he knew both to be cleansing.  It was a welcome distraction after the grueling Council session and the meeting with the King that followed.

But standing still in silence also allowed unpleasant thoughts to drift through his mind, and that would not do.  He desired peace, for the moment, and it occurred to him perhaps this was not the best place to find it.  Besides—peace was rather difficult to find when he was desperately trying to ignore the fact that the ghostly apparition of his father was standing beside him.  Faramir could not see it fully—only a fleeting shadow on the edges of his peripheral vision—but he knew Denethor was there.

"If there is a point to all of this, father, I pray you come to it," Faramir said quietly.  "I grow weary of these games."

A sharp gust of wind stirred Faramir's hair, and he shivered.  Turning abruptly on his heels, he started for the tunnel that separated the Citadel from the rest of the City.  It was high time he headed home; Éowyn would most likely be worried.  But even the quick pace he settled into did not help to ease his troubled mind, for the shadow was never far behind.

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The rain was coming down in torrents by the time Éowyn spotted his silhouette in the distance.  She frowned deeply and turned to the servants.  "Bring the master's supper, and see that it is hot."  Under her breath she added, "If he has forgotten his cloak again, I shall give him an earful he will not soon forget."

The servants bowed and departed unnoticed.  Éowyn opened the door but shied away as raindrops blew into the room upon a particularly strong gust of wind.  Faramir's lips were like ice when they brushed across her brow.  "Yes, love, I remembered my cloak."

Using most of her weight to close the heavy door against the wind, Éowyn scowled, annoyed by the fact that he was always able to read her thoughts.  "But you forgot that it was raining, I see.  You are soaked through."

"And then some, I believe.  Do not worry.  I've not caught a chill yet."

She pulled at the fastenings of his sodden cloak and said, "Let's get you by the fire to see that you don't."

Faramir allowed her to lead him to the chair before the hearth without complaint.  He knew that she enjoyed taking care of him, and though he felt he did not need it, he would not protest.  He sat and watched in silence as she patiently removed his boots.  His hand smoothed her hair away from her face and lifted her chin up.

"The servants are bringing your supper," she said, glancing cautiously at his grave face from where she knelt, wondering if he was willing to share his thoughts.

"Thank you, love.  Will you not sit with me?"

Smiling shyly, she let him pull her into his lap, though not without a small amount of protest.  "The servants will talk…"

He pressed his face into her hair, and said, "Let them.  I have missed my wife today."

"You are quite weary, I see."

"The meeting lasted longer than I would have liked, but it was necessary nonetheless."

"Éomer stopped by briefly almost an hour ago, saying Council had broken.  I worried when you did not come as well."

"The king asked that I remain behind," Faramir explained, carefully skirting around certain details.  "We discussed a few matters."

"Éomer said he will take leave of the City tomorrow, if the weather permits," Éowyn said with great sadness.  "He will be missed."

"He will, indeed."

"Are we to leave Minas Tirith soon, as well?" she asked, with a small amount of hope in her voice.

Faramir turned curious eyes upon her face.  "Are you unhappy?"

"You know that I enjoy being in the City," she said, shaking her head.  "I found a great deal of healing within these gates, once upon a time.  But I do not think my husband finds the same joy.  He has many memories of this place that I do not share."

Faramir fell silent.  Together they listened to the rain drum on the roof.  She busied herself by combing out his wet curls with her fingers, while he closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder.  When the servants returned with steaming dishes, Éowyn wriggled uncomfortably, but Faramir's arms held her fast as supper was laid out upon a table set before the fire.

Faramir thanked and dismissed the servants but did not reach for what they had brought.  Éowyn saw that his eyes were warily fixed upon the shadows in the corner of the room.  She followed his gaze but saw nothing.  "Is something the matter, my lord?"

Faramir seemed startled at her words and more than a little unsettled.  But a moment later, the fear was gone from his eyes as he quickly masked the emotions.  "It is nothing.  I thought I saw something, is all."

"Will you not eat something?"

"In a moment," he said, suddenly gripping her tighter.  It was obvious he was inwardly debating whether or not to share something with her.  A moment later, he added quietly, "You told me yesterday to come to you if I was troubled."

Éowyn could not keep the slight smile from her lips, pleased that her long-suffering husband had at last begun to open up to her.  "I did."

"The king told me something tonight that I did not want to hear," he said reluctantly, "but his words were truth.  I do not particularly desire to go into the details of what he said to me."  His words were even and devoid of emotion, as though he was attempting to discuss the matter objectively.  "Yesterday you suggested that I cannot grieve for my father because I have yet to forgive him.  Today the King implied that I blame myself for my father's death."  He shifted his eyes slowly from the fire to her face.  "You are both right."

Éowyn's lips parted in astonishment. "How is your father's death remotely your fault?"

Faramir's gaze fixed again on the fire burning in the hearth.  "It was despair that took the life of Denethor.  I cannot think of anyone else who caused him more grief than myself.  To begin with, I created the great rift between us.  'A wizard's pupil,' he called me.  He did not think me loyal to him, like Boromir.  Perhaps he was right.  I was the one who sought Mithrandir and his counsel, against my father's will.  The death of my brother is also on my shoulders.  It was I, not Boromir, who originally had the prophetic dream.  I should have been the one who journeyed to Imladris.  My father was loth to see him leave.  His loss was most unnecessary."

Éowyn shook her head, and her brow creased in distress.  "It was Boromir's decision to go.  You cannot hold yourself to blame for that."

Faramir seemingly did not hear her.  Words had begun to tumble rapidly from his lips, as though he was suddenly realizing, himself, all that he said.  "And then the defeat at Osgiliath followed news of Boromir's death.  My brother had long held the river garrison in tact.  Again I proved a disappointment.  When I fell in battle, Denethor's despair was complete.  His line ended.  Because of my mistakes and weaknesses, the House of the Stewards had failed in his eyes."

"Mistakes?  _Weaknesses_?" Éowyn gasped.  "You discount the role the _palantir_ had in your father's decline."

"That is beside the point.  The things Sauron was able to show my father through the _palantir_ drove him mad, not into despair.  That falls upon my shoulders."

"I disagree, Faramir.  Though I did not know your father, I have lived before in the house of a man whose reign fell into ruin—or almost did.  Lies are always at the root of despair, and that is precisely what the Dark Lord fed your father—lies.  Lies with a grain of truth, and those are the worst kind."

Éowyn lifted his chin so that he was forced to look at her.  "You speak of weakness and error, Faramir, but I do not see either.  When you sought the counsel of Gandalf, it was not a mistake, but a show of great wisdom on your part.  If your father had done the same, he would probably still be alive."  Seeing that he winced at her words, she quickly added, "Forgive me, Faramir.  I know I speak my mind too frankly at times, but it is truth.  Because of your wisdom and Gandalf's loyalty to you, the line of Stewards persists.  It did not fail.  It was, after all, Gandalf that pulled you off the pyre, was it not?"

When Faramir offered no response, she continued.  "And I say again that it was Boromir's decision whether or not he would follow the words of the dream.  Do not forget that he had the dream as well.  And the defeat at Osgiliath would have still occurred had Boromir been there.  It was an unfortunate but inevitable defeat.  You cannot blame yourself for these things."

As she spoke, Faramir closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.  "No, Éowyn.  Your words are kind and well meant, but there are things you do not understand.  _I_ _am at fault_."

"If that is what you truly believe, Faramir, then you will never find peace," Éowyn said, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.  "The same despair that claimed your father will come for you.  It will haunt and destroy you."

"Perhaps I deserve no better," he said quietly.

"Every one of these terrible thoughts of yours center around _you_, Faramir, and that is most dangerous.  I see Denethor's pride shining through your countenance."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a dim memory surfaced—words that had echoed once through a great hall as he lay dying upon cold stone.  His father's voice.  _Pride and despair._

Faramir suddenly became very uncomfortable.  He rose quickly to his feet, taking Éowyn with him.  "Forgive me," he offered as he steadied her on her feet.  "I suddenly do not feel well.  Perhaps I should retire."  And with that, he quickly strode from the room, leaving Éowyn confused, frustrated, and alone.  Biting her tongue, she glanced dejectedly at Faramir's untouched supper.  In the hearth a log crumbled, and flames quickly leapt up to devour it.

Closing red-rimmed eyes and bowing her head, Éowyn whispered a desperate prayer.  "Please…please, do not let this happen.  I cannot watch him do this to himself…not after my uncle.  Please…let him see through this deception.  Give him peace."

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In his chambers, the exhausted Faramir fell quickly into sleep and impossibly quicker into dreams.  It seemed as though he had only just closed his eyes when the cruel nightmare claimed him.

In his dream, he lay paralyzed upon the pyre in the Houses of the Steward.  He felt the vaguely familiar burning of poison in his veins.  The sharp smell of wood and fragrant oil roused his senses, and Faramir's eyes opened slowly in confusion to gaze into the face of his dead father.  Denethor's gloved hands gripped Faramir's face almost desperately, as if he was seeing his son for the first time—only too late.  The old man drank in the sight of his dying child with longing and piercing sorrow.

"My son…burning…already burning…"

Faramir tried to speak but found he could not.  Indeed, he could barely keep his eyes open.  Was this a nightmare?  Was this real?  He could not tell.  Faramir's head swam in confusion, his eyes rolling from side to side as he struggled to maintain his weak hold on consciousness.  Something warm and wet hit his face.  Denethor was weeping.

"Pride and despair," the old man whispered.

Faramir winced at the words.

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After clearing away the uneaten supper, Éowyn dried her tears and hastened towards their bedroom.  As she approached the door, however, it suddenly opened, and the ghostly pale face of her husband emerged from the shadows.  Éowyn gasped in surprise and leapt back.

"You frightened me, my lord!" she cried when she recognized Faramir's face.  "I thought you would be asleep by now."

He seemed not to see her, though she was directly in front of him.  Calmly, Faramir passed her and continued slowly down the hallway.

"Faramir?" she asked in concern.  "Are you all right?"

He did not answer.

Somehow Éowyn immediately knew that something was deeply wrong.  She followed him into the darkness, the lone candle she held in her hand the only light.  "Why do you not speak?" she persisted, following closely at his heels.  "Are you ill?"

No response.

_"Faramir?"_

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Still caught in the nightmare, unaware that he roamed the halls of his house, Faramir believed he was still upon the pyre in the Houses of the Steward.  He tried to speak, but only a small moan escaped his lips.  Something glowed like fire beside his prone body, and he saw that the _palantir_ was upon the pyre as well.

"My jewel," his father said, hands still upon Faramir's face, "touched by shadow, fire, and death.  These things will come back to claim you if you remain here.  Why do you not rise?"

The smell of sulfur pierced the air and mingled with the oil.  Somewhere a fire was burning.  Above them, the great dome of the Houses of the Steward cracked.  Smoke and flame curled upwards toward the sky.  Faramir strained to sit up, but he found he could not move.  Insistent hands shook his shoulders and gripped his face urgently.  "You must rise.  Do you not understand?"

Faramir felt the rising heat in the room and began to panic.  The cracked dome was on the brink of collapsing upon them both.  'Where is Mithrandir?' he wondered desperately.  'This is not how it is supposed to happen…'

"Wake up, Faramir!" Denethor pleaded, his voice suddenly becoming high and thin.  _"You must wake up!"_

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"Stop it!" Éowyn was screaming.  "Please, Faramir!"

His clouded gray eyes blinked in confusion when he woke.  As Faramir regained his senses and emerged from the nightmare, he felt for the first time the small fists pounding mercilessly upon his chest.  Completely disoriented, he gazed in panicked confusion into the tear-stained face of his wife.

"What are you doing?!" she screamed with anger and fear he did not understand.  "Put it down!"

Suddenly, he noticed that his skin felt somewhat sticky and wet.  Looking down, he realized in horror that he was drenched in oil.  A shallow basin lay empty at his feet.  In his hand, he held a torch.  Éowyn was desperately trying to pry it away.  Gasping in terror, Faramir dropped it onto the stone floor.

"What-?  How-?" he stammered, recoiling away in alarm.

"Oh, God…" Éowyn cried.  "You didn't even know what you were doing, did you?"  Throwing herself into Faramir's arms, she burst into fresh tears.

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To be concluded.

Yes, I know that technically Éowyn probably wouldn't say "God"—perhaps Eru or Iluvatar—I've used the more generic title (oh, that sounds horrible! I don't mean it as such!) for a diety since I figure the concept of "God" is part of Middle Earth.

One more chapter to go!  Please, please, please review!

ithilien.morningstar-rising.com


	7. Chapter Seven

Enough with the angst.

Okay…maybe a _little_ more angst…  :)

Either way, let's have some resolution, shall we?  My new beta reader is unfortunately out of town, so please forgive any mistakes.

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The Stone and the Steward—Chapter 7

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It took hours to soothe Éowyn's tears and worries, and in the end, the entire story was told to her.  Only then did she begin to understand all that Faramir was suffering.  He told her everything:  about the nightmares; the voices; the ghost of his father; the incident with the _palantir_.  All things considered, she took the news better than he expected.  Though she was understandably quite upset, she counseled and comforted him with steadfast calmness.  Her newfound desire to be a Healer extended far beyond healing physical wounds.

"Why does my father haunt me, Éowyn?" he asked, looking at her with pleading eyes.  "Do you think it is all in my head?"  His voice was raw and fatigued.  Quiet and defeated.

"Part of it, yes," she said after a moment of thought.  "But I also know that this incident is making you think about some things that, while not pleasant, must be dealt with."  Taking his hands into her own, she kissed his brow languidly.  "You are not mad, Faramir.  You have heard these words both from your wife and King, two people who love and know you well.  Will you not believe us?"

"Perhaps I am not mad, but the fact still remains that this has grown dangerous.  Something must be done."  Faramir placed his aching head in his hands.  "I'm going to dream again, Éowyn.  I'm going to dream, and something terrible is going to happen."

"Nonsense.  Do you honestly think your father would harm you?"

Faramir did not answer.

"Despite all of these things you have told me tonight, I do not think he wishes you harm," she continued, running her fingers through his damp hair.  "I believe Denethor is trying to tell you something—or warn you—and I think you should listen to what he is saying."

Faramir let a slow, defeated sigh ease from his chest.  "How do I let this go, Éowyn?  What must I do?"

She considered the question in silence for a few long moments before responding.  "Do you remember when I first came to you in the Houses of Healing?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Very funny.  When I came to you, I complained because I did not want to lie in sloth and wait.  I did not want to heal.  I did not even want to live, for as you know, I thought I would certainly die in battle.  Fate spared me, and but for you, it would have spared me in vain.  I needed to heal, or I would not last.  You made me see that."

Éowyn placed a gentle hand on his cheek and turned his face towards her.  His grey eyes met her steady gaze hesitantly.  She continued in a soft but firm voice.  "As I did in the Houses of Healing, you have to let these hurts inside of you heal if you ever want to find peace or happiness.  You have to allow the time for that healing.  To fully recover, you have to face these lies you have allowed yourself to believe.  The only way to fight lies is with truth.  Know the truth.  Understand it.  Speak it.  Then peace will come."

Outside, the dying thunderstorm gave a final quake of thunder and faded silently into the mist.

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"So, dear brother, I see you have decided to say goodbye to your sister before you abandon her again in a foreign country.  How very thoughtful."

"I find that you are less troublesome here," Éomer said by way of greeting.  The early morning sun shone brightly from the sitting room window, causing his teasing eyes to sparkle at his sister fondly.

Éowyn laughed, but her smile did not reach her somnolent eyes.  Placing a marker in her journal, she gestured for her brother to sit with her.  Éomer's smile melted as he did so.  "Forgive me, but I just noticed how pale you are.  Is everything all right?"

Glancing wearily at her brother, Éowyn said, "I admit I am a little tired.  Faramir and I were up for most of the night."

Éomer lifted an eyebrow.

"We were talking," she said pointedly.  "And that reminds me.  I wanted to thank you.  Faramir told me that you spoke with him yesterday, and that your words were very kind.  Sometimes I think, dear brother, that you might actually approve of my choice for a husband."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Éomer muttered and quickly changed the subject.  "When last we spoke, you were quite concerned for your husband.  Do you worry, still?"

Éowyn sighed resignedly.  "I can honestly say that for the first time since we arrived in Minas Tirith, I am not anxious for him.  Faramir is stronger than you realize, but even if he was not, we are to leave the City later this afternoon.  I must admit, I do not wish to visit here anytime in the near future.  We are so much happier in our own home.  Oh, you must forgive me.  I am being quite rude.  Can I offer you some refreshment?"

Éomer did not seem convinced by his sister's dismissal of the subject.  "Éowyn, I have known you all your life.  Come now—I know when you are distressed."

"Brotherly intuition?"

"I have eyes," he said evenly.

Swallowing with difficultly, she spoke hesitantly.  "Something happened last night.  Well, I suppose it has been happening for the better part of the week.  I cannot share details.  Simply put, Faramir has been struggling with something most serious.  I didn't even know the extent of it until he shared some things with me last night."  She turned towards her brother and smiled.  "But I believe much of it was sorted out.  We talked things through for much of the night, and I think with my help, he has grasped a few important concepts about guilt and forgiveness."

Éomer eyed her suspiciously.  "I suppose your innate feminine qualities had nothing to do with your powers of persuasion?"

"Of course not.  I sat him down and screamed at him until, at last, he saw reason and listened."

He laughed heartily at that.  "It is as I thought, then.  Feminine qualities, indeed.  All has been worked out, then?"

"I believe so."

"I am glad, for both your sakes.  I must admit that I was not pleased, seeing you both so troubled.  And where is your husband now?"

Éowyn smiled sadly.  "Paying some last respects."

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The Houses of the Steward were in a sad state.  It was not surprising that the reconstruction of the City had taken precedence over the ruined burial chamber on Silent Street, for many said it was desecrated beyond repair.  The walls were burned and scarred, weak and crumbling.  The great dome had collapsed in on the remains of generations upon generations of Stewards.  Looking upon the ruin, Faramir smiled faintly.  Denethor certainly knew how to make an exit.

The young Steward sat in reverent silence before his father's final resting place, absently thumbing the loose silver ring of the Steward around his forefinger.  Many hours had he been there, confronting past hurts and misunderstandings, trying to see truth through lies he had allowed himself believe for far too long.

Faramir gazed at the ruins emptily and spoke quietly but with conviction.  "I've misunderstood you, dear father.  There are so many things I wish I could have done better when you were alive, but I know now that blaming myself will only repeat mistakes of the past.  Your mistakes—and I don't believe you want that for me.  I remember one thing above all else; you and I loved one another, despite all our differences.

"Father, I forgive you in my heart for any wrongs you have done, to me or to yourself.  I love you and miss you most grievously.  Please be at peace."

Morning sunlight broke through the clouds that remained from the previous night's storm, warming Faramir considerably.  He felt the deep, biting chill that had settled in his bones quiet.  The heaviness left his heart.  If he was a not a logical man, Faramir could have sworn he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

But that was foolishness.  His father was at peace.  Faramir felt quite certain he would not see or hear from Denethor again.

"It was not my fault," Faramir said quietly when he heard footsteps behind him.

The King appeared next to him.  "No," he said, placing a hand upon the burned walls.  "No, it wasn't.  Denethor made a choice."

Resolutely, Faramir rose to his feet.  "And so will I."

"And what will that choice be?" Elessar inquired, placing a brotherly hand on his Steward's shoulder.

Faramir glanced briefly at the ruins of the Houses of the Steward.  "What would you say the opposite of despair is?"

"Some might say 'joy' or 'hope,'" the King responded after a thoughtful moment, "but I would say 'peace.'"

Faramir nodded thoughtfully.  "Then that is my choice.  For my wife.  For myself.  For my father's memory."  Having said this, he turned and bowed low, silently taking leave of his King.

"Farewell, Son of Gondor," King Elessar said as he placed his hand upon Faramir's bowed head.  "Be at peace."

The young Steward smiled serenely as he rose.  The fragrance of Ithilien danced on the eastern breeze, reminding him that home was calling.  In the distance, he could see Éowyn waiting for him at the top of the Citadel.  She wore a familiar mantle of deep blue and a gentle smile as she watched him.  Turning away from the crumbled ruins, Faramir went to her.

Finis.

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Please let me know what you thought of "The Stone and the Steward."  Many heartfelt thanks to the sweet people who have left me reviews.  You kept me going.  Really.

I should have a new Faramir/Éowyn story coming out soon. Watch my LiveJournal for details and chapters when they are released.  www.livejournal.com/users/ladywenham/


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